Trade You
by AngelxPhoenix
Summary: "He needed somewhere to cool off, somewhere with a decent breeze that wasn't crowded with people seeking his attention..."
1. Trade You

**Hey hey hey! Having reached a bit of a deadlock with my current WIP, I decided on a little palate cleanser in a different fandom and tried my hand with Negan. This actually grew from a prompt I found on Tumblr and turned out nothing like what I expected. Nonetheless, I kinda like how it turned out, and I hope you do too. Also, it's interesting to note that I've been writing for twelve years and have never in all that time used this much profanity in such a short story.**

 **And away we go!**

Dear sweet Jesus on a saltine cracker, it was fucking _hot_.

Negan prowled the Sanctuary on his administrative rounds, overseeing operations, getting updates on supplies, sending men off to scare the fucking piss out of a few groups reported thinking of defying his rules, praising a couple people doing good work in his community and reprimanding a couple that were slacking, handing shit off to Simon when he could and dealing with it himself when he couldn't. His normal routine, barring the heat of what had to be the hottest fucking summer since the whole fucking world went to shit.

He was sweating bullets in his motorcycle jacket, the usually comfortable leather making him feel he was roasting alive. Perspiration rolled down his arms to his palms, his grip on Lucille slippery and grimy. Poor sweet girl...he felt a little guilty defiling her like that, but at least she wasn't suffering like he was. God had evidently said _fuck it_ and turned off the AC on the whole goddamned planet as far as he could tell.

The rounds finally completed for the day—or the moment, at least—he managed to shake off his supplicants, the few genuinely devoted as well as the many just trying to kiss ass. He needed somewhere to cool off, somewhere with a decent breeze that wasn't crowded with people seeking his attention...

The garden. That would suit him.

Propping Lucille on his shoulder, he strolled out of the Sanctuary and out to the area reserved for planting. Vegetable patches, mostly, though there were a few fruit trees as well, all usually well-tended and fertile but the plants had also suffered in the heat, leaves wilted and drying and the ground baked to dust. About the only things still growing were the fucking weeds. Which made sense, in a way, bottom feeders and parasites prospering in a disaster. It was the way of nature. It was the state of the whole fucking _world_ , children. Take a walk among the dead, and you'd learn it pretty fucking fast or die stupid. Fuck, you might die anyway. Death was also the way of nature.

He heaved a sigh and kept walking to the little scrub of trees at the edge of the neglected vegetables. The lack of gardeners would ordinarily piss him the fuck off—hard enough to keep people fed without a few lazy fucking shitheads that didn't want to contribute—but it was silent in the gardens right now and that was just what he needed. His workers were likely taking what shelter they could from the heat of the day, and he couldn't say he blamed them.

Well, maybe not _all_ of them were taking shelter...

As he got closer to the trees where he planned to get some shade, he could hear a muffled, rhythmic thunking sound punctuated by gasps of effort, and through the branches he could make out the figure of a woman determinedly swinging an axe into the ground.

He could feel heatstroke coming on just watching her.

"I always admire dedication to the task at hand," he called, stepping closer, "but if I gotta call Carson down here because you've overdone it in this shit, that's just going to make it a bad day for a lot of people."

She didn't stop, didn't turn around, didn't even acknowledge his presence, but raised the axe over her head and brought it down again.

Negan moved until they were in swinging distance of each other, her with her axe and he with Lucille. "Maybe you didn't fucking hear me the first fucking time," he said, pitching his voice louder, "but there's a damn good reason why no one is busting ass when it's hotter than a threesome of weasels in a burlap sack outside, so give it a fucking rest."

Still nothing. The back of her neck was sunburned and her shirt was soaked through with sweat, and she just kept ignoring him. Either she had gonads bigger than most of his men, or she was just plain stupid.

Either way, she clearly didn't know who the fucking boss was around here.

He waited until the axe was down again, then clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Let me explain it to you, dollface—"

She whirled around, yanking herself away and trying to lift the axe in the same motion, but barely brought it up to knee height before she tripped and sprawled in the dust, the axe falling useless.

Negan's remaining patience lasted about as long as his tolerance. Whatever shit she'd been thinking of pulling, it wasn't going to fucking fly. Nobody defied him, much less tried to take a swing. Nobody. He seized her upper arm in a solid grip and hauled her to her feet, dragging her a few steps away from her erstwhile weapon.

"What the fucking _fuck_ was that?" he demanded, voice rising to a half-shout. "Have you lost your fucking mind, or do you just not fucking know who the fuck you're looking at?"

Several emotions played across her face in rapid succession. First shock, then recognition and surprise, followed by A-plus bona fide unadulterated awe.

Well, at least she _did_ know him. He relaxed his grip on her arm the slightest bit and went on, "I could almost understand trying to chop my fucking head off with a motherfucking axe if I hadn't said a fucking word to you, but that's not the fucking case, is it, sweetheart? Care to tell me who the fuck you think you are that you can get by with something as goddamned disrespectful as to fucking _ignore_ me when I'm talking to you?"

Her eyes stayed blank and uncomprehending and she raised her free hand to gesture at her ear before shrugging apologetically.

Son of a syphilitic floozy. The woman wasn't ignoring him at all. "Deaf?" he said.

She shrugged again.

He released her and stepped back. "Well, fuck me. Did I just make a gigantic ass of myself, or what?" She didn't react to the words, and he hastily tried to recall what sign language he knew. He'd worked with a few deaf kids before the world fell apart, and while he wasn't exactly fluent, he at least knew the basics. He drew a clockwise circle on his chest with his fist, belatedly shifting his expression to one of remorse. _I'm sorry_.

She waved her hand dismissively as if to say no apology was necessary.

He indicated her, tapped the first and middle fingers of each hand over each other, then spread his hands as if asking a question. _What is your name?_

he made a few signs with her fingers, going slowly so he could keep up. W-E-N-D-Y.

He nodded, then spelled his own name. N-E-G-A-N. He added an ironic bow. "At your service, Wendy darling."

Wendy giggled and bobbed a curtsy.

"Can you read lips?" he asked, forming each word carefully.

She shrugged again.

He heaved a sigh and scrubbed a sweaty hand over his face. Holy fucknuts, it got hotter by the damn minute! He gestured to the meager shade the trees provided with a few inquiring motions, adding by habit, "Do you mind?"

She shook her head and he stepped into the shade, sloughing off his jacket and spreading it on the ground to give Lucille a place to rest. Carefully propping her against a tree trunk, he sat down beside her in the dust and turned back to Wendy.

He hadn't seen her around the Sanctuary, as far as he was aware, so she likely came in with some of that new group he'd visited. The leader was some Jesus freak convinced all God's children should live in harmony...until Caesar demanded his tribute, that is. And Lucille, well, she didn't appreciate that much. With some Bible-thumping cult leader like that in charge, it was no fucking wonder some of his flock chose to leave the fold. Wendy sure as hell didn't look like she'd left paradise; she was on the tall side and was probably slender once, though now she had the half-starved look most folks did nowadays. He could count the vertebrae in her spine, for fuck's sake, her long limbs closely resembled twigs fit only for kindling, and with those sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, and that razor-sharp jaw, she looked as though someone had begun to mummify her and she woke up halfway through it.

It was a damn shame. She was probably pretty once upon a better time, but the state she was in now, fucking her was probably one step short of necrophilia.

He shook the thought from his head as she raised a bony hand to brush sweat from her eyes, then reach for the fallen axe. Malnourished as she was, he was amazed she even had the strength to lift it, and he leaned closer to see what she was doing. A shovel lay abandoned nearby and she stood at the edge of about three square feet of freshly-turned earth...breaking ground for more planting? It looked like she had uncovered a tree root and was attempting to cut it away, though she hadn't made much progress, and it wasn't hard to understand why. He watched her next swing, and while she was strong enough to lift the axe, she couldn't do much else with it but let gravity take over and use its own weight to chip at the root. The effort was valiant but feeble, and she looked ready to pass out from exhaustion at any second.

Getting to his feet with a sigh, he tapped her on the shoulder, then held out his hand. She looked down at the axe she held, and gave it to him at his nod. He motioned her towards the trees and waited until she was seated, at either a respectful or uneasy distance from Lucille, before hefting the axe and getting to work. Two powerful swings later, and sayonara.

Negan set the axe aside and joined Wendy in the shade. She raised her fingers to her lips and swept her hand out towards him with a smile.

"You blowing me kisses, sweetheart?" he teased, though he gave her a thumbs up in response.

She sighed and reached for a plastic bottle sitting nearby that once held soda, and the few sips she took of it were likely as carefully rationed as the water that now filled it. He took a flask from the pocket of his jacket, the smell of the Scotch wafting up from the moment he removed to the cap right up until the first swallow. Perfection.

He had no idea how long he was sitting there before he realized Wendy was staring at him uncertainly, as if unsure what to make of his presence. He glanced at her with one raised eyebrow and she looked away quickly, embarrassed to get caught. She moved to stand and go back to work, but he motioned again for her to sit. "Take a break," he said. Speaking was useless, but it was hard not to. "You absolutely have more balls than my men, out here in this shit. Fuck, it's hot out here!"

She made no move to reply, and when he lifted the flask to his lips again she offered her water bottle, raising the other hand in a hesitant, half-joking, give-and-take gesture he interpreted as _Trade?_

He smirked at her. "Sorry to let you down, doll, but you need better currency than that."

She hesitated again, then slowly reached into the crumpled paper bag beside her and withdrew a small yellow cake in a cellophane wrapper.

His eyes widened in amazement. "Well, I'll be a goddamned fucking monkey's uncle," he said. "Where in the holiest of all fucks did you get that?" The new world had made decent alcohol a luxury but there were plenty of liquor stores in the Saviors' territory, and probably a moonshiner or two, come to think of it. But it had been a long, lonely fucking year indeed since he'd seen anything as decadent and goddamn fucking delectable as one little motherfucking Twinkie.

Wendy couldn't hear his words but she could see his expression, and her eyes took on a slightly anxious cast as she wrote in a patch of dust with her finger, _My last box. I've been saving them for months_.

ll, she didn't steal them from him, at least, but holding out was fucking rude as fuck. He brushed away her words and traced, _Did anyone tell you my rules, Wendy darling?_

She looked a bit more anxious now; did she see Lucille's wrath when her group's head honcho tried to buck the system? Probably so. Her fingers twitched as she held out the Twinkie and made a chopping motion with her hand against it. Half.

He nodded and added in the dust, _You work for everything you get_.

She nodded and waited for him to go on.

He considered the situation a moment. It was an infringement of the rules, all right, but under the circumstances...he wrote, _And you're the only one working right now_.

The corner of her mouth quirked as if trying to smile and the tension eased from her shoulders. She tore open the wrapper and he added, _But don't tell anyone_.

She shook her head, a serious look on her face as she mimed drawing a zipper over her lips.

He smiled and held out the flask. "Trade you?"

His smile finally encouraged hers to respond, and she split the Twinkie and offered him half before taking the flask, taking a conservative sip and suppressing a shiver as the Scotch went down.

"Yeah, maybe you're right," he agreed as she handed it back. "It's piss compared to some I've had in the past, but then again, there's a lot of shit now that's piss compared to this." He took another swallow before starting on the Twinkie, closing his eyes in obscene appreciation. "Holy fucking fuck, girl, it's been way too fucking long since I've had one of these..." He finished it slowly, wanting to make it last as long as humanly possible, licking his fingers to get the last crumbs and washing it down with a bit more Scotch. "The simple pleasures, doll," he said, "are so much more goddamned pleasurable once everything else goes to shit..."

Wendy ignored him, working on her half of the Twinkie and pausing for occasional sips of water.

"Too many people took the simple things for granted," he went on, "but not me. Not anymore. Nothing like the end of the fucking world to give you a fresh perspective on what you should appreciate. A fine whiskey, a fine ass woman, the occasional snack in the shade..." He raised the flask in salute to his companion. "Thanks for the trade, Wendy darling."

He hoped she understood the gesture, and by the way she returned it with her bottle of water, he guessed she did. She looked around the unbroken ground for a moment, then indicated she was getting back to work. Negan nodded in polite approval and she got to her feet, picking up the shovel and driving it into the dirt.

It was hard work just watching her. She was in no kind of shape for the heavy labor but she didn't quit, her physical ability vastly exceeded by stubborn willpower. That kind of tenacity spoke volumes. She was disabled but she wasn't incapable, and he respected that, goddamnit.

"You can't work hard for me if you work yourself to death," he said, standing up and walking to her. He tapped her shoulder and when she glanced up, he pointed to the shovel, held up two fingers, and spread his hands to pose his question.

She paused in consideration, then went to the supplies she'd brought out with her and held up a cultivator fork, shrugging.

"Hell, that'll work," he replied, taking the shovel from her. He pointed from the fork to the chunks of earth she had already turned with the shovel, then began to turn more himself.

There was always something de-stressing about yard work. Hard work, for sure, but it was hard to think about much else when focused in battle for mastery of the earth itself, the futility of the endless labor balanced with the sheer physicality of it oddly satisfying. He moved along the row she had already begun, breaking the ground into decent-sized chunks, and she followed behind with the cultivator fork, breaking the chunks into manageable soil. He necessarily set the pace, and he worked deliberately slower than he might have so she wouldn't have to push herself so hard.

Sure, he could be a gigantic douchecanoe, he was a ruthless S.O.B., and he was unforgiving when laying down the law, but not one motherfucker on the whole motherfucking planet earth could say he didn't take care of his people.

"I try, you know," he said. "It's not much different now than it used to be. People need someone to lead, to look up to, to solve all their problems when they can't or won't do it for themselves. The situation has just gotten a bit more fucking serious, is all."

Wendy worked steadily, giving no indication she was paying any attention to him apart from taking her turn with the earth he'd just worked, glancing his way now and then. She _wouldn't_ be paying attention, would she? It was kind of liberating, getting the chance to spill his guts for a change without worrying about anything else, and so he kept talking.

"You've got to be everything to everyone, doll. Leader, provider, judge and jury every now and then... Take care of the ones doing right and deal with the ones who aren't. And whether they love you, fear you, or hate your fucking guts, you've got to make them respect you. It's the only thing keeping shit running smoothly.

"And I gotta tell you, it's good to be the king, but it sucks giant elephant dick to be the chief. You get your pick of all the good shit that's left, you're at the top of the motherfucking food chain, and when you say 'jump' you got an entire fucking crowd asking you how high. And you can't trust a fucking one of them. They'll turn on you in a heartbeat if you give them half a chance. That part hasn't changed, either. It's still dog eat dog. Survival of the fittest, babydoll, and you don't get to have friends when you're the one in charge."

Wendy was leaning on the fork, having caught up to him along the row and waiting for him to move along farther. She watched patiently as he stomped the shovel into the ground again and again, and fuck if it didn't feel great to blow off a little steam in the work and in an audience that couldn't even hear him bitching.

"Not saying they're all gunning for my spot, but if they thought they could get away with it...too fucking bad for them, it sure as fuck isn't what it's cracked up to be. I'm responsible for all this shit, girl, and believe you me, it's a fucking shit ton of shit to be responsible for. I've got to keep these people alive, that's on me like hair on a monkey's ass. That's why the rules are so goddamn fucking important. No exceptions. It's easier all around, you know? That's why you can't let shit slide no matter what. You think I want to be hard on anyone, Wendy darling? Fuck no I assure you I sure as fuck fucking don't. I wish everyone could cooperate, work together, all that fun shit. But when they don't, I gotta do what I gotta do, can't worry about who hates me for it.

"That's the part that really chaps my ass. Will they remember when the rules kept everyone safe? Not fucking likely. Will they remember when someone broke the rules and I had no choice but to come down on them? Hell to the motherfucking yes. It teaches them about consequences, but it also teaches them to fear you, despise you, and wish your immortal soul to the hottest corner of Hell there is. Knowing that, I know there's no one on my side that's really on my side. I doubt I've had anyone like that since—"

He broke off, his throat closed with sudden unexpected emotion as he glanced at the baseball bat sitting in the shade.

There was a touch on his arm and he shook off his mood to see Wendy had reached out with a hesitant hand, looking concerned. He shrugged and brushed her off, turning back to the ground with renewed determination. Just fucking great. Now the deaf chick would start feeling sorry for him, and he didn't have time for that kind of shit.

He kept his mouth shut after that, focusing on the dirt beneath his feet, and Wendy fell in beside him, working steadily along with him until she signaled to him they'd finished the patch she had outlined. He strolled back to the trees and set the shovel aside, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans and wincing as the denim chafed at the new blisters. Wendy followed behind him, signing a quick _thank you_ as she gathered her tools.

"Don't mention it, doll," he said, taking Lucille in hand and shaking out his jacket.

She hovered indecisively for a moment, then wrote in the dust, _We all do what we have to do, and it takes guts to do what you're doing. Not everyone will see it that way, but some will. The ones who see and don't judge are the best friends you have_.

Negan paused, struck dumb. When he finally found words, it was, "I thought you said you couldn't read lips."

 _I never said either way_ , she wrote. _You assumed I couldn't_.

Was he supposed to be embarrassed? He only said as much as he did because he thought she wouldn't understand, and it was disconcerting as fuck to be caught that vulnerable.

She read his expression and solemnly zipped her lips closed again, then winked reassuringly.

He was grinning at her before he knew it, reaching for the tools. "C'mon, Wendy darling. Let's put these away and get ourselves a drink. I'm sweating my balls off out here."


	2. Trust You

**I'm back! I used another prompt from Tumblr that took another unexpected turn, but I think I'm okay with that since I like what came of it. I decided to post this as a second chapter rather than a new story, seeing as it picks up pretty soon after the first left off, and I hope you like it. Enjoy!**

The ungodly heat had finally abated, the temperature dropping from the devil's ass crack to something resembling summer on Earth, but it had been replaced with rain. A fuck ton of rain. If not a downpour that just about flooded the Sanctuary, then at least a constant drizzle that kept everything soggy. Where the sun had been relentless a few days before, now it had been hidden behind clouds so long even the memory of it seemed like a tall tale.

As far as Negan was concerned, either Mother Nature was PMSing bigger than shit or was off her fucking meds.

He sat in his office with his feet propped up on the desk, leaning back in the padded chair and staring out the window. He was ordinarily proud of the office, with a bad ass desk made of solid oak, a bad ass rolling chair upholstered in leather with adjustable lumbar support, a _really_ bad ass aquarium that would have held a few tropical fish in another lifetime, some important-looking filing cabinets and an even more important-looking liquor cabinet, some nice paintings on the walls, a dart board, a novelty singing fish for the hell of it, and a couple straight-backed wooden chairs in decent enough shape not to be an eyesore but plain and uncomfortable enough to remind visitors where they ranked on the totem pole. Put together with luxury and prestige in mind, he always felt like a king in his office. Always.

And today he was sick of it. He could blame the weather, the myriad difficulties of running a substantial community, further reports of groups causing trouble in said substantial community, anything he damn well fucking felt like. The simple truth was that he was plain ass bored.

He swiveled slightly in the chair and folded his hands thoughtfully. Maybe he could call one of his wives in and bend her over the desk—Amber was delightfully fuckable the last time she was in his office—or maybe one of his men would be up for a game of darts—Fat Joey had joked about a rematch awhile ago—or hell, he'd even listen to the stupid fucking fish on the wall if it helped pass the time.

Rolling his eyes at himself, he got to his feet and crossed the room to the fish he found at turns annoying and amusing, pressing the button to get the thing flopping and dancing as "Don't Worry, Be Happy" broke the silence.

It was no fucking surprise to discover he was in a mood to consider it annoying.

He turned to the window and stared out through the rain. He had some of the best views in the Sanctuary; walking into the office, visitors could see the fence with its undead guardians and the pariahs tending them, but from his desk in the opposite direction he could see lawn and garden, the life among the dead. Not that there was much to see right now. If anything survived this rain, it would be soggy or rotten or whatever the fuck happened to plants when they got too much water.

He paused as movement outside caught his eye. A cluster of people were out in the garden, ignoring the rain as they went about their work, though whatever _that_ was was beyond him. What kind of yard work could you possibly fucking do when it was raining cats and fucking dogs? He watched them for a few minutes, then lost interest and left the window.

It wasn't until later when he was making a surprise inspection of the Sanctuary—bored the fuck out of his motherfucking mind—that he found the mud and water tracked inside, an ever-widening path stretching from door to—

He froze, dumbstruck. Plants. Plants everywhere. Vines, bushes, even a few of the smaller fruit trees, dug up into pots and buckets and spread out across the factory floor, draining and dripping all over the fucking place. It was a clusterfuck if he ever saw one, and if there was one thing he prided himself on, it was neatness.

"What the fuck is all this shit?" he demanded loudly. "Someone better tell me who the holy fuck is responsible for this, and they better have a fucking phenomenal excuse!"

Four people walked through the doors from the rain outside, two of them carrying a huge bucket with a peach sapling between them and the others hauling smaller pots holding other plants, all of them soaking wet and mud-smeared as they carefully made their way across the filthy floor.

Negan advanced, slipping in the mud. He recovered his balance, but a near miss wasn't going to do shit to improve his mood. Seething with irritation, he approached the little group and said, "Any of you care to explain to me what the fuck you think you're doing, dragging this goddamned mess all the fuck over knowing good and fucking well how I like to keep a clean house and that your housemates bust their fucking asses keeping this place presentable? Anyone?"

All four of them set down their containers and three of them bowed their heads respectfully, looking slightly nervous. The fourth, however, kept her head up and her gaze locked on his face as if not to miss a word of his tirade, and as he got closer he recognized her. Wendy, the deaf gardener.

Well, whatever the fuck was going on, now it made a little more sense.

He stopped in front of all of them, assessing each of them and saving Wendy for last. She was as thin as ever, her rain-soaked clothes clinging to every bone, mud up to her knees and elbows. "How about it, friends?" he asked, watching her for signs of explanation. "It's the wrong fucking weather for gardening, and even I know that goddamn much."

Wendy raised her hands and started signing rapidly, then paused at the blank look on his face and motioned for one of her companions to explain. A middle-aged woman with streaks of silver in her hair spoke. "The rain is flooding the garden. We had to relocate what we could or lose the entire crop."

Well, he supposed he knew _that_ too, though the status was a little more dire than he expected. Some of his irritation ebbed away and he looked around at the plants they had rescued, still dripping water and turning from a healthy green to a strange shade of yellow. The Sanctuary didn't survive on tribute alone, and there were a lot of people to be fed. If they lost what they could grow themselves they wouldn't exactly starve, but there would be a lot more people as scrawny as Wendy. "Have we lost anything so far?"

"There's been water standing in the cabbages since the rain started," the older of the two men replied, "and the seeds we started after the drought will have washed away by now. We won't know about anything we dug up until they've had a chance to dry out a little."

"How bad would you say it is, as it is? Your best guesstimate?"

Wendy immediately gave a thumbs-down.

The seriousness of her expression took him by surprise. "That bad?"

"Possibly," said the young man, barely more than a kid. Holy shit, he could almost have been one of Negan's students, he was that young, yet he looked at least as serious as Wendy. "The entire plot is on a grade. You barely notice it just walking around, but the water all runs downhill to pool at the bottom."

"Into the cabbages," Negan ventured, cocking a finger gun at the older man.

He nodded. "It's not been a problem before, but we've never had it flood like this, either."

Negan looked past them to the rain outside. "Anything left out there you might be able to haul in here?"

Wendy shrugged and the woman agreed, "It's just the cabbages now and the fruit trees big enough to outlast the weather. We'll have to start the seeds over, and there won't be any green beans this season at this rate."

"Well now, honey, that is a damn tragedy," he replied. "Based on what we have, minus cabbages and green beans, are we in danger of imminent starvation?"

Wendy looked poised to communicate something but the older man said, "Based on what I see right here, there's not much chance for half of what we saved. At _least_ half. They've been out there drowning too long, they'll never dry out before they start rotting."

Negan watched Wendy for any sign of agreement; she was watching the other man closely, following every word as it shaped his lips. She turned back to Negan at a gesture from him, and he asked her, "How 'bout it, sweetheart? Is it as bad as all that, or can we do better?"

She looked at all the containers, seeing the drooping vines and puddles of water still draining out of the pots and buckets, and he waited patiently for her to answer, finally raising her hand and holding it flat while rocking it slightly back and forth.

"Maybe?"

She nodded.

"All right, then. What do we do?"

"There's not much we _can_ do," the man replied. "They're all sitting in mud, they're not much better off in here than—"

"Pardon the fucking shit out of me, my friend," Negan cut him off. "I do so hate to interrupt, but what is your name?"

The man paused momentarily before responding, "Travis."

"Well then, Travis, as I said, I hate to interrupt you, but you've already weighed in on this shit show and pronounced it fucked up beyond all recognition, and while I respect your opinion, I still reserve the fucking right to seek another. Wendy here says more can be done, so I'm talking to her right now, and I say one more fucking time, I _hate_ interruptions."

Travis fell silent, bowing his head and looking away.

"Now then, Wendy darling," Negan said, turning back to her, "what's your game plan?"

She carefully spelled it out, keeping to the alphabet and signing slowly as he followed along. _They need dry soil. They'll drown soon as they are._

Negan paused, skeptical. "I'd say that's a plan, darling, but it's raining the standard forty days and forty nights and I'm thinking of building a fucking ark as it is, so where on God's soggy ass earth do we find dry soil?"

"Any old hardware or feed store carries potting soil," the kid suggested. "Dirt isn't exactly in high demand, so we should be able to scavenge some."

Negan raised an eyebrow. "I don't know where you came from, son, but you're with the Saviors now," he said, "and the Saviors don't scavenge for shit."

 _Even in emergencies?_ Wendy signed.

All right, she got him there. Back when they were first trying to make this pile of bricks work and _everything_ was a lights-and-sirens emergency, they had scavenged their asses off with the best of the vultures and carrion-eaters. They had toyed jokingly with the idea of referring to themselves as the Crows before they rose up in the world—not that that was saying much. So yeah, they used to scavenge like bottom feeders, but there was no need for Wendy to know that.

He assessed the kid and the other woman one more time, taking their stock and thinking seriously. "So I'm to understand it will be a disaster if we sit back and wait for this ass-backward little conundrum to get itself turned the fuck around?" he asked Wendy.

She nodded.

He turned several ideas over in his head before saying, "Tell you what, Wendy darling. Why don't you and—" he glanced at the kid, who answered, "John," then at the woman, who said, "Susan," he nodded once and went on, "why don't you, John boy and Susan get yourselves cleaned up and ready to go, and I'll put a bug in a few people's ears, and they can run you out to any old hardware or feed store and make sure your asses are covered while you get whatever the fuck you need to come back and bail our asses out of this shitpile Mother Nature has seen fit to bury us under. How does that work for you?"

Wendy traded a look with her companions and nodded.

Negan smiled. "Get a move on, sweetheart."

She and the other two hurried away, leaving the older man standing. Negan turned to leave, then called back over his shoulder, "Be a pal, Trav, and clean that shit up. You know how I love a tidy house."

* * *

The sun had set without showing its face from behind the clouds again by the time the gardeners returned, going straight to work as soon as they arrived with the precious soil. Negan took no interest in this, though he was fairly impressed to hear Wendy had taken down a dead one that had otherwise surprised the group at the hardware store and nearly taken a chunk out of one of his own men.

The rain persisted and Negan put the problem of growing things out of his mind for the next few days, finding more to occupy his time. There were more stories coming in of trouble in his territory and he had his hands full enough without even thinking about the deaf chick. It wasn't until the rain had stopped at long fucking last that anything to do with the agriculture even came to his attention. And when it did, it came directly to his doorstep.

He had retreated to his office for peace and quiet and was thinking of pouring himself a drink when there was a knock on the door. "It's open," he called, walking to the liquor cabinet.

No one came inside, but a few moments later there was another knock.

"Open the fucking thing!"

No response, but yet another knock.

He slammed the cabinet closed again and went to the door, storming, "The fuck's the deal here, are you fucking deaf or—" He yanked the office door open and laid eyes on Wendy standing in the hallway.

Goddamnit.

He heaved a sigh and held the door open for her. "Wendy darling, I have _got_ to stop making such a fucking jackass of myself around you," he remarked.

She shrugged then mimed writing, and he handed her a pen and a sheet of paper from his desk. _Bad timing?_ she asked.

"On the contrary," he replied. "You can join me for a drink." He went back to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of Scotch, handing one to her and motioning to a chair. "Ladies first, doll."

She sat in one of the wooden chairs and he sank into the office chair, lifting his glass to her before taking a long swallow. "What brings you all the way up here, sweetheart?" he asked.

She took a delicate sip of whiskey, then took up the pen again and wrote, _We're going to start moving things back into the garden soon, but we should do something about flood prevention while we can._

"That's an excellent idea, my dear," he said, "and while I know as much about gardens as a Catholic school girl knows about blowing dick, I can't stress enough the totality of my faith in your skills."

She smiled and signed a thank you, but kept writing. _Runoff ditches would be good, but raised beds would be even better. As it stands, though, we don't have the supplies or the manpower._

"What?" he burst out. "Manpower? Wendy darling, look around you! We've got all the fucking manpower you'll ever fucking need!"

 _They're not interested in suggestions from the new kid_.

"Bull-fucking-shit. The new kid is busy saving their ungrateful collective asses, and they'll learn to be interested if I have to teach it to the whole motherfucking crowd of them."

Something passed across her face too fast for him to read before it was gone and she wrote, _We still need supplies. If necessary, we can make do with whatever we happen to find around here, but we can't half-ass it and expect it to work. We need to go on a run, if we go by the design I worked out._

Negan sat staring at her for a moment, unsure what to say. Saviors didn't scavenge? She couldn't send them out with her grocery list and expect anything to come of it? She _was_ the new kid, after all, and while she had more than earned her place among the others, he could expect shit to blow back if it looked like he gave her preferential treatment over his own men. Power was a delicate balance, and he thought she understood that.

He swilled the Scotch around in his glass, thinking quickly. "How much of what you brought out of the rain survived?" he asked.

 _All of it,_ she wrote. She seemed to be thinking as quickly as him, adding, _The dry soil saved us._

The dry soil from the last time she suggested a run and he decided to trust her. She knew what she was talking about back then and she'd bailed them out of one motherfucker of a jam, and he could only make a bigger ass of himself by not listening to her now. Greater fucking good, and all that shit.

He drained the glass in one swallow and folded his hands on the desk. "All right, Wendy darling, let's see these designs of yours."

* * *

It sure as fuck wasn't easy. It took two trips to get everything Wendy needed, one of which almost went bad when a dead one grabbed onto one of Negan's people and a trigger-happy Savior shot the thing even deader; he missed with the first shot and the poor bastard was still in the infirmary with a bullet graze at his temple. As for the gunman, Negan assigned him to teach target practice—as the target. Where _not_ to aim, as it were.

The actual construction was a long and back-breaking process, and Negan was dead certain that Wendy would have lost half her workers halfway through the project if they weren't all scared shitless of him. Not that she was a bad boss, in fact she did more than a fair share of shit herself, but she was stubborn and exacting in her execution and she wanted the same from everyone else. Good wasn't good enough. She wanted results, and Negan, feeling more and more inclined to respect that desire, made sure she got them.

More clouds gathered as they hurried to replace the plants taken during the rain back in the garden, typical gardeners and recruited help alike. Negan's curiosity brought him out to watch as Wendy led the group in replanting the newly-finished beds, and he had to admit it was pretty fucking impressive.

Where there had been flat, albeit sloping, ground were now gently terraced sections of earth, separate beds utilizing scavenged railroad ties as retaining walls, each with a shallow trench leading out and away and connecting into what Wendy referred to as a French drain, a separate ditch below the last bed containing a pipe made of coiled chicken wire wrapped in plastic sheeting and filled with gravel. In theory, Wendy told him, water would run through the trenches in the beds and into the drain, collecting in the giant steel drum dug into the ground at the end serving as water collection against dry spells.

No, it wasn't easy, but it looked like sheer fucking genius.

Wendy brushed most of the dirt off her hands and approached him and he nodded his approval. "Looks like some hot shot fucking landscaper dude did it," he said, speaking as always where she could see his words. "Professional, and damn brilliant."

She smiled, then glanced at the sky where the thunderheads were building up.

"Yeah, looks like we're in the nick of time, Wendy darling. You think it'll work?"

She nodded firmly, then lifted her crossed fingers and he laughed. "It's all right, doll. I trust you."

That John kid staked tomatoes while Susan, the older woman, packed earth around a young peach tree. He didn't know many other names but he recognized a few faces from other bits of work around the Sanctuary, mechanics stabilizing the retaining walls while cooks carried planters back and forth, carpenters working with the mechanics and gardeners with the cooks. It was the most bizarre team effort he had ever seen since their group first came together, all of them united in their anxious glances toward the coming storm.

He looked at Wendy again as lightning flashed in the distance and asked, "Won't the rain do a number on them, right after they go in the ground?"

She shook her head, pointing to the ground and making curling, crumbling gestures with her fingers, then pointing to the clouds and pressing her palms together, and after awhile he understood. The soil was loose now, but the rain would pack it firm.

The first peals of thunder sounded as the last vine went into the dirt and the workers began to collect their tools. Negan strained his eyes to see the rain already falling several miles away, and with the wind picking up the way it was starting to, it wouldn't be long until it hit the Sanctuary.

The crowd started moving inside but Wendy walked back out into the garden, looking everything over and inspecting with care and focus, tiny frown lines appearing between her eyebrows. Negan stood watching her, and fuck if she didn't look like an artist surveying a new painting, deciding if a final brushstroke was needed. She had planned, analyzed and observed everything about this down to the last damn detail, and he wondered what she had done in the old world to keep such fastidious habits in the new.

He approached her and set a hand on her shoulder, nodding towards the Sanctuary when she looked up at him. "Come on, doll, I've got a good view in my office."

She followed him inside as the first drops fell, and by the time they reached his office it was coming down in earnest. She went straight to the window on entry and he followed, listening once again to the steady pattering rhythm of the rain, and it had been long enough since the last storm that he once more found the noise soothing rather than irritating. And it was with pity that he looked at Wendy, unable to hear it at all. It was fucking tragic, is what it was, to live without something as mundanely extraordinary as the sound of a rainfall...but as it beat against the window she pressed her palm to the glass, fingers tapping softly along with the water.

Something about the innocence of the gesture had him smiling before he knew it.

He moved to stand next to her and she smiled briefly up at him before looking outside again, and he followed her gaze to the garden below. Puddles were starting to form, the newly-turned edges of the trenches already looking washed smooth at a distance. Wendy's suspense was contagious, and Negan found himself holding his breath as the runoff slowly followed the channels through the beds to where the plastic-and-gravel contraption lay in the earth. They waited a few more tense moments, staring at the steel drum reservoir, then finally saw it. A modest but steady trickle from the drain, straight where it was meant to go.

Negan turned grinning to Wendy and she looked back with an identical expression. "Wendy darling, you are some kind of goddamn brilliant."

She beamed even wider and gave him a thumbs-up, a silent celebration against the sound of the rain.

Ago yet


	3. Teach You

**Back again! I think this is another record...I've never had to do so much research for such a small project! Also, I would like to see that my ASL is extremely limited and most of the research was spent looking up the signs described here, so don't quote me on any of it. Ifi got something wrong, my apologies. Enjoy! :)**

Negan stood in what used to be one of the main power rooms, or whatever the fuck you wanted to call it, back when this place used to be a working factory, staring at what had become the next number-one-priority, fix-this-fuck-up-fast-or-else problem. He pondered the various, highly inconvenient ramifications that would arise if the situation wasn't corrected ASAP, each more irksome and dire than the last, wondering what the fucking fuck was taking Simon so fucking long.

"Found her, boss."

About damn time.

He turned to his second-in-command approaching with a very tall, very thin woman who, judging by the dirt on her hands, had just come from the garden, and he grinned at her. "Wendy darling," he said, "are you ever a fine fucking sight for my tired old eyes."

She smiled and spread her hands in a gesture he interpreted as _what's up?_

"We've got a little bit of a pickle here," he told her, turning back to the new number-one-priority. The Sanctuary had electricity thanks to the big ass generators left over from its factory days, though they had only ever gotten two of the three to function properly and one of the two broke down awhile back. Given that the whole fucking place was running on just one power source, Negan was pretty much gobsmacked the last fucker hadn't bit the dust sooner, but it was still a nasty shock. He had been going over inventory reports in the comfort of his rooms when the desk fan in the corner had stopped running and Simon had appeared at his door two minutes later with the bad news. It was a problem, all right, and he tried to explain in as few words as possible. "You see, sweetheart, this massive fucking piece of shit machine here has been the lifeblood of our little community for quite some time now, it decided to cash in its fucking chips this morning, our former heavy machinery guy with the Napa-know-how made lunch meat of himself on a supply run awhile ago, and I hope with all my fucking heart that you've got what it takes to get this thing running again."

He saw Simon's eyes widen as if in surprise. It might be a stretch, but if the deaf chick could pull off something like redesigning the entire motherfucking garden to save their asses from starvation, he wasn't about to overlook her abilities dealing with the next crisis.

Judging by the look on her face, Wendy didn't seem to think he'd overestimated her. She focused on the generators, lined up one beside the other, walking between them with a thoughtful look on her face. She looked up at him, pointed at each generator, and spread her hands again.

Goddamn, it was a pain in the fucking ass trying to communicate. "This one, I think," he said, indicating the generator on the far left, "hasn't worked as long as we've been here. This one," pointing to the one on the far right, "gave up the fucking ghost a few months ago and hasn't been touched since. The one in the middle quit just this morning. Does that cover it?"

Wendy nodded, then went back to studying the generators.

Negan glanced over at Simon, who still looked surprised but also a bit curious. "Can she fix this?" he asked.

"I sure as fuck hope so," Negan replied. "I'm putting my money on her, just in case."

"Is she a mechanic, or something?"

"Shit, Simon, I have no fucking clue. When I met her, she was digging fucking stumps out of the garden."

"Wait, was _she_ the one who came up with that ditch and drain thing?"

"Bingo."

Simon's eyes widened again, this time looking impressed. "God _damn_ , boss..."

Negan grinned. "She's a fucking genius, my friend, as long as you can figure out talking to her."

Sure enough, Wendy was approaching again, miming that she needed pen and paper.

* * *

Negan ordered flashlights and candles everywhere in the Sanctuary for general convenience (any for personal use could be purchased with points) and Wendy spent the day at the generators. He couldn't make heads or tails of her scribbles and sketches, but she seemed to know what she was doing. Either that, or she was fucking phenomenal at faking it. Either way, he left her to it.

There was no solution by the end of the day and only the chicken scratch idea of a plan by the end of the next, and by then Negan appreciated more and more both Wendy's ingenuity and the ability to communicate with speech. Through paper when she had it and a whole lot of gestures when she didn't, she explained her plan to convert one of the generators: Like any old weather radio the banks would hand out as a free gift upon opening a new account, there would be a crank or lever that would be manually operated to generate and store power in a battery (at least, that's what he _thought_ she meant). At any rate, it would get enough shit juiced to start the generator, and as long as someone operated the lever periodically, it would—in theory—power the Sanctuary.

How in the holy motherfucking hell she was going to turn a big ass fucking engine into a goddamn windup toy was beyond him, but he didn't ask questions.

More supply runs, more shopping lists, as he had taken to calling them, and more hard ass work than he would have expected her to put in, and he had to admit she was well on her way. He made it a point to stop by at least once a day to check her progress and sometimes more often than that if he had nothing else to do, and he concluded that she wasn't just a really good bullshitter, but actually knew what the fuck she was doing. Not only that, but the entire project was that fucking _cool_.

His enthusiasm must have been plain on his face, because she started to take the time to explain shit to him, communicating as best she could how she was repurposing old parts, the function of the generator as it was and what she intended it to be, and how the finished project would operate and be repaired if the need arose. It wasn't until about day three that he noticed her signing shit as she explained it, demonstrating what her hands looked like to name a word as easily as he could have spoken it, and he thought that was pretty cool as well.

The Sanctuary had been dark for nearly a week when Wendy finally sought him out, the usual dirt smudges on her hands replaced with grease and an aura of calm excitement around her. She waved him along and he followed her to the generators, taking a moment to stop and examine her latest brain child. It looked just about the same, apart from a few panels removed to add new parts, and the crank itself, which looked a hell of a lot like the hand lever taken from a goose neck trailer to him.

She saw him looking and spread her arms in a ta-da gesture, then rested her hand on the crank, pointed to him, pulled her hands toward her body with curled fingers, then rolled her closed fists back toward him as if revving a motorcycle. _Do you want to try?_

He grinned, took the handle, and turned it. It took some effort to get it moving as the parts connected to the drive shaft went from inert to kinetic, but it wasn't too hard after the first few turns. He worked at it for about a minute until she motioned for him to stop, then she pointed to a switch nearby—good God, she'd rewired the fucking breaker, for fuck's sake—and he flipped it.

There was a shudder and a surge, and the generator started humming about two point five seconds before the lights hanging above their heads came on.

Negan looked from the lights to the generator in amazement. It was one thing to believe she could pull it off, but still took him by surprise that she actually did. "I swear to fucking God, Wendy darling," he said, "if I was stranded on a desert island with no hope of rescue, I'd want you right there with me to do this Mac-fucking-Gyver shit you do."

She smiled, then tapped her temple and spread her hands in that questioning gesture. _What do you think?_

"Honey, I think I could kiss you right now, you and this contraption of yours are that goddamn magnificent."

She laughed, then laughed some more when he took her hand and kissed it, bowing slightly like she was the goddamn fucking Queen of Sheba. "I also think I like talking to you without a pen and paper getting in the way," he added, "so if you don't think you'll be too busy with your new duties, maybe you'll teach me a little more of your hand speak." She looked confused and he said, "After your latest miracle, I'd have to be the village fucking idiot not to make you my new head engineer, sweetheart. Unless you'd rather stay out in the garden?"

She shook her head no. No, she wasn't to busy; no, she didn't mind teaching him; no, the garden would be fine without her.

* * *

As far as engineering duties went, Wendy didn't have much to keep her occupied yet. Negan gave her license to wander, looking all around the Sanctuary for something that could use improvement and bringing it to his attention. He went with her on a few of these rounds, and thus she was also able to fulfill her role as sign language instructor. He'd be damned if she wasn't a walking, talking Rosetta Stone program, the way she taught shit, and it was kinda cool having conversations no one apart from the two of them could understand, like a grade school club with secret languages and shit.

With juvenile enthusiasm—not that he'd call it that, if anyone asked—he picked up everything she showed him with more ease than all the other shit they tried to cram down his throat in school, and while he wouldn't call himself proficient yet, especially when she still had to sign extra-slow so he didn't miss anything, he didn't think he was doing half bad.

They were on her rounds as usual, and while he hadn't said a single word out loud yet, they were still in conversation, and he felt quite pleased with himself.

 _Proper names can be tricky_ , she was explaining _. People are usually given sign names based on their traits or characteristics, so no one has to spell out the whole thing._

 _What's yours?_ he asked.

She made the sign for "grow," the fingers of her right hand rising up and fanning out from behind her left. _Lifelong gardener_ , she added.

 _Can I give you a name?_

 _Of course._

 _Okay,_ he signed, then made two A's with his hands over his heart, saying aloud, "Wendy darling."

She smiled and laughed.

 _What's mine?_ he asked. "Is there one for sexy, arrogant asshole? _"_

 _Several_ , she deadpanned, _but they're not suitable for daily use._

It was his turn to laugh. _Then I'll have to let you pick one._

She thought about it, then mimed a swinging motion, as if wielding a bat.

Well, he supposed he wouldn't need any other introduction than that, though having that particular characteristic be the first one she jumped on was a little chafing. Brilliant, resourceful, ever-helpful Wendy darling, and bat-toting thug Negan. He was fully fucking aware he was a brutish prick, the more so since the world ended, but shit. If she had the fucking gall to judge him for it, she could piss off.

 _That's the first thought_ , she went on, _but I think this is better_. She folded her right hand over the fingers of her left and bobbed them twice, as if shaking someone's hand. _Leader_ , she spelled out _. You do what you must for your people. Like a leader should_.

Wow. Talk about a one-fucking-eighty. He went from being irritated at what felt like an insult to unsure how to accept a compliment he wasn't _that_ sure he deserved. Before he could stumble through a reply, though, she gave a playful smile and went on, _I think I'll call you something else, though_. She put her hand beneath her chin and wiggled her fingers, then indicated her lips.

Dirty mouth.

He burst out laughing. _Not fair_ , he signed. _You haven't taught me any dirty words._

She shrugged, still smiling, then dragged two fingers across her palm and drew a circle over her right shoulder. _Truth or dare?_

It was one of her methods, to play a game of some sort to teach him more words, and it was pretty fucking effective so far. _Truth_ , he replied.

 _Aren't you hot in that jacket?_

 _Did you just say I'm hot?_

She rolled her eyes at him and he answered, _Very. But it's part of the act, Wendy darling. Tough guys take the heat when others can't, and what have you._

She gave a nod of understanding.

 _Truth or dare?_ he asked.

 _Truth._

 _What were you before?_

She smiled again and held up both hands, the tips of the thumbs touching with pinkies raised, then moved the right hand in a way that reminded him of a ratchet. Then she spelled, _Engineer_.

"No shit!" he burst out. "You're fucking with me!"

 _It's the truth_ , she replied. _I went to school for it and everything_.

"Trained _and_ certified!" he said. "Hot damn, doll, that's too fucking perfect!"

She kept smiling, then asked, _Truth or dare?_

 _Dare._ Why the fuck not?

 _Take off your jacket._

 _You can think of something better than that._

 _Take off your jacket._

She was wilier than that fucking coyote. He knew what she was up to, trying to get him to drop the act. On the other hand, it was hot as balls, so...why the fuck not? _You're not fooling me,_ he informed her, then slipped the leather off his shoulders. And he had to admit, the cooler air felt fucking _glorious. Your turn, sweetheart. Truth or dare?_

 _Truth_.

He gave a huge yawn of boredom. _You're killing me, Smalls. Make it exciting._

 _Make your question exciting_.

"Challenge fucking accepted, Wendy darling." _What's the wildest place you've had sex?_ he signed, moving his right index finger through the circled fingers of his left hand.

Her look of pure fucking astonishment was priceless, her mouth falling open and her eyes widening in disbelief, and he wanted to laugh. He had never seen her so flabbergasted. _Are you serious?_

 _You picked the game, not me._

He thought she would refuse to answer, but after a thoughtful moment she started signing, spelling the words whenever she used a new sign _. Under the bleachers at a demolition derby. I was in college, and went with my boyfriend before semester started. I could feel the rumble of the arena through the ground, and the air was so hot it felt bottled. I was sure we were going to get caught, but_ She stopped, and her smile finished the sentence for her.

Negan stared at her for a minute. "Damn, girl," he said, "that's pretty fucking wild. I think I'd have my work cut out for me trying to top that."

She bowed with a flourish and laughed. _Truth or dare?_

 _Truth._

 _Why a baseball bat?_

He shrugged, glancing down at Lucille, as faithful as she ever was. _It was handy when I needed something to hit something else. The wire came along later._

 _Handy?_

 _I was a gym teacher._ She smiled and nodded slowly, seeming impressed. "You never would have guessed that one," he teased.

 _I wouldn't have_ , she admitted. _How did that come about?_

"That's cheating," he chided. "It's my turn." _Truth or dare?_

She appeared to think for a moment, then replied, _Dare_.

Well fuck, he hadn't actually seen that coming. He paused, unprepared and trying to think quickly, and she took the opportunity to tease him. _Come on, you can think of something._

"I can, doll, but given your tendency to blow my every fucking expectation right the fuck out of the fucking water, I'm trying to think of something really good."

 _Don't worry, I can wait._

"Yeah, I'll fucking bet you can." He stood thinking about it some more, then said, "I reserve the right to cash in one dare later. Fair?"

She shrugged her compliance.

"Your turn."

 _Truth or dare?_

 _Truth._

 _What was your life before all this?_

 _Gym teacher, coach, lifelong dirty mouth._

 _Coach? Baseball?_

"Ping-pong."

She laughed again. _I'll have to play you sometime._

"You'll fucking lose, Wendy darling. Don't do that to yourself."

 _Maybe I want to._

"I never pegged you for a masochist."

 _You never pegged me for a lot of things._

"Touché." _You know, I've made myself comfortable in this world, probably more so than in the old, but I honestly miss working with those kids._

 _Did you ever have any?_

 _Not that I know of._

He stopped, surprised at his own answer. True, none of his wives were knocked up, and he and Lucille never had children, but damn, he sure liked to fuck. And he wasn't always careful about it, either. What if one of his affairs _had_ created a child, and he had no idea? He could have been a father this whole fucking time and never known, and he'd likely never fucking know, the way things were now. And yet, the only woman he'd ever even wanted kids with was gone, and he'd been too busy sticking his dick in anything soft to love her as he should have, the way she fucking _deserved,_ goddamn it. He hadn't lied, he had made himself pretty fucking cozy in this new world, but wasn't that just a means to deal with what he had lost with the old one?

His grip tightened on the baseball bat, a shitty substitute for the namesake he thought he'd lost his fucking mind without. Thought? No, he fucking _had_ , and _there_ was some truth for you, ladies and gents. "Sorry to cut this short, sweetheart, but I gotta run. I'll let you get back to work." He moved to leave, then turned back and said, "Teach me some dirty words, and I'll teach you ping-pong."

 _Is that a dare?_ she asked.

"It's a fair fucking trade, the way I see it." He gave Wendy a final nod and set off, bat over his shoulder, looking for one of his men or one of his women, something from the new world to pull him back from memories of the old.


	4. Dare You

**We're back! A couple things before we start; I learned a few things about writing dead characters and dialogue, so now whenever quotes are used around Wendy's words, she is signing. I'll continue to italicize her words when she is writing. This story came about through a prompt, specifically "demisexuality." There's a lack of representation in fiction, and I washed to take the opportunity to try and explain what it is. I drew from my own experiences as a demi and don't mean this as the be-all-end-all explanation. If anyone is confused, curious, or just looking for resources, you can look it up on , or message me.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

There used to be a time when the autumn meant something. The drop in temperature and the changing of the leaves was the cue that there were only a few short weeks of freedom left before classes started and Negan was held as much of a hostage to the bell as the kids he taught. These days, all the changing season meant was there was less daylight to go in reasonable safety and less time to prepare for a winter they had lost all the tools to predict.

Just fucking great.

Most of his days lately were spent going over inventory lists and comparing them to his census of everyone in the Sanctuary, trying to plan for "enough" and "in case of emergency." So many fucking numbers he started reconciling them in his sleep. The hard part was the tribute coming in from other communities. On one hand, he understood that his people weren't the only ones bracing themselves. On the other, if he gave an inch they'd take a mile, and if they kept trying to short him, he and Lucille would have to pay a few people a visit.

Supplies aside, evidently the Sanctuary was in worse shape than he thought, all the projects Wendy brought to him for improvements to the building. She seemed to be at least as busy as him these days and the sign language lessons had come to a necessary halt. The last words he'd exchanged with her had been about winterizing the garden, something he'd never given a thought to before, leading him to suspect she'd have some weird ass DIY shit in the works before much longer.

He was having a particularly aggravating day-no fewer than three communities had been short on their offerings and meanwhile the Sanctuary was living skinny-when one of his men sought him out. "Hey, boss?"

Negan rounded on him with a glare. "I'm fucking busy," he said. "I'll get to you in half a fucking second."

"Sorry," the guy went on, "but we got a problem in the garden."

"Then fucking fix it! Surely you motherfuckers can handle some of this shit your goddamned selves-"

"That deaf chick is in the middle of it."

Negan heaved a sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face in exasperation. Of course she fucking was.

"And I figured you'd want to see to it yourself-"

"Yeah, yeah, what the fuck ever. Let's see what the fucking deal is, already."

It wasn't cold outside yet but there was a bite in the wind that took some of the edge off his temper. Some. It didn't seem likely to last long, though, as they neared the garden and saw the crowd gathered around. The atmosphere was tense and the faces uneasy, but everyone stood aside as Negan walked closer. It was like a fight on a high school field, with onlookers clustered around empty ground to leave space for the combatants. One man was restrained by another, and Negan recognized him as Travis, the doomsday prophet who would have cost them their crop during the rain. He was bleeding from his mouth and nose, and lowered his head at Negan's approach. Standing opposite, that kid and older woman standing guard on either side, was Wendy. Her face was as weathered as ever, but there was no missing the bruise on her face or the cut above her eye.

In another world, the woman who meant more to him than anything said his temper was like a storm of wind and thunder, raining down everywhere until it expended itself, but when he was truly angry it was quiet, static, like the split second between pushing the detonator and the bomb going off. Calculated, grand-scale destruction. Seeing the damage to someone else he cared about quite a bit, Negan accepted the assessment. He felt his earlier ire calm, collecting itself for an explosion. "Someone tell me what. The fuck. Is going on here."

His words were soft, but he had a feeling everyone was listening in. And yet no one spoke. He turned to Travis, who was still staring at the ground. "Trav?" he said. "Something you wanna tell me?" He glanced up at the crowd again. "Anyone?"

Motion at the corner of his eye caught his attention; Wendy had raised her hands to speak. "I was working alone," she began slowly.

Travis was quick to speak once she had done so first. "I found her destroying the stock!" he burst out as though desperate to tell his side after all. "She had a fire going and was throwing everything onto it!"

Wendy waved her hands emphatically to regain Negan's attention and went on, "There's leaf spot in the garden and almost half of the plants are affected. It's serious."

"How serious?" he asked, ignoring Travis. "And what the fuck is leaf spot?"

"Leaf spot is a plant disease," Travis started to explain, but Negan wasn't listening, watching Wendy's hands instead.

"It's bad," she said. "It affects plant yield, it spreads through infected seeds, there's no treating it, and almost no controlling it once it settles in."

"How does it affect yield?"

"The plant produces less and when it does, the fruit isn't fit to eat. Most of it isn't, anyway."

"What's she saying?" Travis demanded. "Is she telling you how she's vandalized our stores and we have no seeds for next season, thanks to her?"

"Trav, I'm fairly sure I've told you about interruptions before," Negan snapped, "now do yourself a favor and keep your fucking mouth shut until I say otherwise. Got it?"

The other man looked angry but stayed quiet, and Negan motioned for Wendy to continue.

"I noticed it when I was clearing out the old plants," she said, "and I double-checked against the harvest to be sure. The only thing to do at this point is burn the infected stock."

"Even the seeds?" he asked.

She nodded.

Negan could guess the rest. Travis had come upon her weenie roast and jumped to conclusions before giving her the chance to explain herself. Understandable, but he'd still laid his goddamn hands on her, and there was no fucking way Negan could let that shit slide. No. Fucking. Way.

"Wendy tells me she just saved our sorry asses," he said, rounding on Travis. "She tells me there's something called leaf spot in the garden, and that's it's fucking serious. Now tell me, Travis. Is she right about that?"

Travis's brow furrowed and he answered in a low voice, "I don't know for sure we have it, but-"

" _Is it_ _serious?"_

He nodded slowly. "Yes. It is."

"Well then. First question: Why the fuck didn't anybody notice it sooner? _Before_ we would have lost so much stock?"

He hesitated, then stayed silent.

"Second question," Negan went on, "what the motherfucking _shit._ Made you think you could raise your hands to a woman on _my_ fucking watch and get the fuck away with it?"

Travis didn't answer, but he went deathly pale.

"Well?"

"I saw when it started," a bystander chimed in. "She pushed him first."

"Did I fucking _ask_ who pushed first?"

He could feel the fury building within him, his blood running like fire and his hands shaking with the urge to choke the fucking life out of the goddamn piece of fucking shit standing in front of him. Anybody who moved against anyone he called friend was a stupid motherfucker that needed to be taught a _really_ _good_ lesson.

He was still trying to decide the best punishment when he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Wendy, wiping blood out of her eye before saying, "Can we talk in private?"

Casting a look at the crowd around them, he was inclined to comply, but he was still too pissed to leave things unresolved. She stared at him a moment, then added, "Before you make any permanent decisions, at least."

Before he bashed someone's goddamn motherfucking brains out. He stared back at her for a long minute, then turned to the Savior that had brought him outside to begin with. "Find our buddy Travis here a place to cool his heels until I decide what to do with him," he instructed. "The rest of you, get back to whatever the fuck it was you were doing, and I swear to fucking Christ, you sorry shits better start playing nice with each other, because I am _not_ handing out any more fucking time-outs around here. If that is in any way unclear for any-fucking-body, step right the fuck up."

Nobody challenged him and the crowd started to break up. Negan looked to Wendy and nodded towards the building, and she followed him to his office.

"Okay, doll," he said, facing her as she pushed the door closed behind her. "Talk."

"What are you planning on doing with him?" she asked.

"I planned on letting him try his fucking luck with Lucille, since he wants to hit a lady," he replied. "See if he can keep his hands to himself once she's reasoned with him."

"Really, Negan? You're going to kill him over a fight that I started?"

"Who said anything about killing him? First blood sounds fair enough."

She gave him a skeptical look that seemed grotesquely exaggerated by the blood still dripping into her eye. He shook his head and sighed, "Sit down, Wendy darling." She dropped into one of the chairs in front of the desk while he went to the liquor cabinet and gathered a bottle of whiskey, a glass, and after thinking it over, the drawstring bag from a cached bottled of Crown Royal. He poured a shot and handed it to her, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of her. "Knock it back, doll. None of that prissy sipping bullshit."

She gestured with one hand to indicate she didn't usually drink but he brushed it off. "Don't care," he said, splashing whiskey onto the purple bag in his hand. "Shoot it. Trust me." She still hesitated, and he added with the shadow of a grin, "I dare you."

The skepticism turned into a glare and he smiled even wider. "That's right, I said it. I fucking _dare_ _you."_

She took a deep breath as if about to deep-sea dive, pinched her nose and gulped down the alcohol, shuddering and grimacing as she lowered the glass, and he swooped in before she could catch on and bathed the cut above her eye.

She hissed sharply through her teeth and slapped her hand onto the desk next to him. He raised his free hand to the side of her face to hold her steady, cleaning away the blood and surprised to see dirt. "Did you fall?" he asked. Her eyes were squeezed shut and he tapped hey cheek gently and repeated the question when she could see him. "Did you fall?"

She nodded, miming hitting something against her eye, and he understood. Travis didn't do that part. She got the cut when she hit the ground. "But he _did_ hit you?" he asked.

She nodded again and pointed to her bruised cheek, then added, "After I pushed him."

"Doesn't fucking matter," he said, wiping the last of the blood, dirt, and whiskey off with the dry part of the bag. "You were trying to get his attention the only way you could. He wasn't listening, like the fucking dumbass I took him for."

"He hates me, anyway."

"Why's that, doll?"

"He seems to think I stole his job."

Negan raised an eyebrow. "He's a hot shot Mr.-Fix-It engineer?"

"No. He was more or less in charge of the garden until I came along, then more and more people started looking to me."

He let out a snort. "Says a shitload about his leadership, if you ask me."

"Still."

"Yeah, yeah. You don't need to tell me shit about the male ego I don't already fucking know, babydoll." He looked at the cut one more time, then said, "I think you're all set to kick more ass, Wendy darling. You did a number on your buddy Trav."

"That wasn't all me," she replied. "John saw what was going on and hit him, and might have broken his nose." She paused, then added, "But I punched him in the mouth when I got back on my feet."

Negan grinned and ruffled her hair. "Atta girl."

She smiled and sat looking at him for several moments and he looked right back at her, then she asked, "What are you going to do? I swung first, after all."

"I don't know, my girl," he told her, setting the cloth aside and resting his elbows on his knees. "I gotta do _something,_ you understand. I can't have people fighting and knocking the shit out of each other and thinking there aren't any consequences. And I really don't. Fucking. Like it. When some asshole hits a lady, or a friend of mine. You're both, so that's twice the fuck-up, sweetheart."

"I'm a friend?"

"Of fucking course, babe! Shit, I thought you were smart!"

She shrugged, but she looked pleased.

He heaved a sigh and stared at nothing for a moment, lost in thought. He _had_ to do something about Travis. In fact, he refused to _not_ do something to the prick on a matter of principle. But nothing _too_ extreme...there was no sense in doing away with a somewhat decent worker...

He shook his head. It had been a very long, trying season, and more than anything he just wanted a fucking break. "I need a drink, Wendy darling. Join me for one?"

She looked a little surprised, but she shrugged her consent and he got another glass, pouring two rounds and toasting her. "Here's to you, doll. For all the problems you've solved for me, it's about fucking time you caused one."

"You're welcome," she replied ironically, then took a swallow of Scotch and said, "We really do have a serious problem with the diseased stock-"

"Nope," he interrupted, raising a hand to cut her off. "We're not talking business right now. I've had it up to my motherfucking eyeballs with shit lately and I don't want to hear about goddamned word about it for the next ten years." He took another drink, nearly emptying the glass, then topped it off before going on, "I'll settle for ten minutes, though, if you think you can keep up."

"I'm not much of a drinker," she said.

"And I'm not in the mood to drink alone. Tell you what," he said, lifting the bottle of whiskey and eyeballing the contents, "if you last the rest of this shit with me, I'll let you decide what to do with Travis."

Her eyes widened-the bottle was more than halfway full. "What?"

"You heard me-fuck, didn't mean that, but I sure as fuck meant what I said. He's all yours to deal with, if you can hang for a little happy hour. If you'd rather pass, then..." He shrugged. "I guess I'll think of something."

"What in the world is this going to accomplish?"

"You started the fight, right? You took the blame for that?"

"Yes."

"Then I think a fucking bitch of a hangover is a pretty lenient price to pay for breaking the rules."

"You're serious? This is punishment?"

He chuckled. "It'll probably feel that way tomorrow, doll, I won't lie to you."

She still looked dubious and he added, "Wendy, my dear, you've got a bigger sack on you than a lot of guys I've met and you love to play fair. I respect the absolute fuck out of that. But you gotta understand, I have to be fair, too, and it's not fair if I have to crack the goddamn piss out of ol' Trav's skull and we lose a set of hands and you have to feel bad for starting the fight in the first place and then not stepping up to the fucking plate when you had the chance and I have to go through the unpleasantness of killing somebody, it's really fucking messy, doll, you wouldn't _believe_ it-"

She snatched a sheet of paper and a pen lying on the desk, scribbled a few words on it, then held it where he could read it, glaring furiously at him. He leaned closer to see what she said.

 _You're a godda_ _mn cunt bag. Pour the fucking drinks._

He burst out laughing and took the paper from her. "I'm fucking framing this shit, sweetheart!" he crowed. "For all that it's been a fucked up day for everyone, it was all worth it for this!"

She waved her hand, urging him to get on with it, a grim look on her face. He didn't blame her. She was thin as a rail with a low tolerance, and he had no doubt it was going to hit her like a runaway train. On second thought, this was probably the worst dumbass idea he'd had in a long time... But then he caught the look in her eyes, a determined, stubborn look that seemed to challenge him to either ante up or fold. She couldn't have said it plainer with words.

 _I_ _dare you._

He took her glass and went to sit on the other side of his desk, pouring her another drink and sliding it back to her across the polished wood before refilling his own. He lifted it to her and grinned. "Bottoms up, Wendy."

She smiled as she took her glass, flipped him off, then drank.

The first few rounds were a face-off. Neither of them said a word, and she kept up a fucking gem of a poker face, staring him down and glaring while he sat smirking back. He kept a leisurely pace so she wouldn't get too drunk too fast-he wasn't _that_ damn dumb-but he was just fast enough that she had her work cut out for her to keep up. If she was going to win this, then goddamn it she was going to earn it.

The showdown continued until he finally just got so fucking bored he had to strike up small talk. She kept her replies short at first, but the more booze got in her system, the more inclined she was to say more and more. She couldn't hold her glass and sign at the same time, so their pace slowed even more to allow her to use her hands. And the more she drank, he noticed, the larger and wilder her gestures got and the more frequent her pauses between words. It was like the signing version of a drunken slur, and it was fucking _awesome._

"I always loved learning how things work," she said; they were about halfway through the whiskey when he asked her about her career in engineering. "My dad was a mechanic, so he was always working on heavy equipment and he let me play with his tools all the time. I got the typical high school boy experience with my first car."

"You bought a piece of shit and fixed it up?" he asked.

"A '66 Dodge Coronet."

He whistled. "Sweet ride, doll."

"It would have been. Some guy ran a light and plowed into me junior year. Totalled it."

"Goddamn. That fucking sucks."

She nodded. "Got a station wagon after that. It was ugly, but it ran forever."

"Good point. Lot more room to get busy in the backseat, too."

She laughed and shook her head.

"Oh, don't tell me you never went parking, Miss Demolition Derby! I don't fucking believe you!"

"It's true!" Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright and slightly unfocused, but her hands moved with greater emphasis than ever. "I didn't even date until college!"

"No way, doll. You're fucking with me."

"It's true!"

"What, you mean a bunch of punk ass kids were scared of a girl who could work on cars and didn't have the balls to ask you out?"

"No, they did. I just didn't want to go out with anyone until I started dating my boyfriend."

"Holding out for Mr. Right?"

"No, I'm-" She stopped and hesitated before shrugging and taking another drink, then reached for a new sheet of paper. She closed her eyes for a moment, blinked several times in an effort to focus, then wrote, _I'm demisexual._

Negan read the word several times, but it still held no meaning after four or five tries. "Sorry, Wendy darling," he said, "but what the fuck is that?"

 _I_ _don't experience attraction the way others_ _do,_ she answered. _I_ _have no urge to be intimate with someone unless I know them very well and like them a lot._

"Oh, hon, that's _it?"_ he exclaimed. "For fuck's sake, I thought I was behind the times! That's just fucking _normal!"_

She shook her head very seriously. _Not quite. It's_ _like_ She stopped writing and stared into space, looking for words, and he busied himself with refilling their glasses. _If you think someone is good-looking, you know pretty much right away if you want to have sex with them, right?_

"All the fucking time, my dear," he said, tipping back his glass.

 _That never happens for me. I can appreciate them the way you'd appreciate a nice car or anything else you find pleasing to look at, but that's it. I feel no desire to sleep with someone based on looks alone._

"That's mighty noble of you. Beauty is only skin deep, and all that other bullshit."

She shook her head, wobbling slightly as the alcohol threw her off-center. _That's not it. Just looking doesn't turn me on. You can't connect with somebody just by looking at them, and I don't get attracted without that connection._

Negan furrowed his brow in thought, trying through the fog of booze to understand what she was getting at. "You don't get horny unless you know somebody?"

 _It's not that black and white, but close enough._

"Huh. So I take it you're not the type of gal to put out on the first date..."

She shook her head. They had slowed down enough between drinks that he could see the liquor affecting her more and more. She was moving much slower, eyes red-rimmed and bleary. She looked like she could fall asleep right there at his desk. _I could,_ she wrote, _but I would be running purely on my sex drive, not because I was hot for my partner._

"Now that, at least, I can relate to."

She nodded, moving enough like a bobble head doll that he couldn't help but crack a smile. _It's not that I don't get horny, just that it's rarely "for" anybody, if that makes sense. I got a lot of mileage out of solo sex and never went anywhere with someone else until I felt something for them that had nothing to do with sex, and then something clicked._

"I guess you were really into your boyfriend, then."

 _Yep. We were friends in high school, ended up being lab partners in college, and knew each other so well we could finish each other's sentences. He's one of the few people who bothered to learn ASL so we could talk to each other. We were working on something for our drafting class one day when he happened to lean against me for a second, reaching for a pencil, and that was it. My heart started racing, my hands started shaking. That was the first time I ever reacted that way to_ _someone._ She tapped the pen dreamily for a second, then went on, _It's fine if it doesn't make sense. It's such a fine line that most people don't know it's there, choosing to be celibate as a personal decision and staying that way because it's how you're wired. I'm not trying to be special or anything, I just know that most people don't function this way. I don't even bother trying to explain the difference that much anymore._

"Then why me?" he asked.

She didn't see the question, staring off into space and looking zoned out.

He reached across the desk and briefly laid his hand on hers to get her attention, then signed, "Why did you tell me?"

She shrugged. "I trust you."

He sat staring at her, unsure how to respond, and she leaned forward onto the desk, burying her face into her folded arms and groaning loudly, totally oblivious to how much noise she was making.

The sound, innocent as she meant it, went straight through him, shooting through his veins to settle most unhelpfully in his crotch and he shifted in his chair to adjust himself, trying to be subtle about it. Class act, right there, his engineer piss drunk and miserable at his coercion and him sitting with a fucking boner because she had no idea what sounds she was making.

Just fucking great.

Well, they couldn't just sit there. The least he could do was get her to her own bed where she could sleep it off, and he still had inventory reports to go over. Trusting she was too out of it too notice what was going on in the whole fucking building, much less in his pants, he got to his feet and took a moment to let his head stop swimming at the movement before walking around the desk and putting a hand on her shoulder, shaking her gently."Come on, doll," he urged, "don't puss out on me yet..."

She released a huffy breath and didn't move, and he shook a little more insistently before reaching under her arms and hauling her to her feet. She grumbled, then moved to hold onto him and try to steady herself while she got her balance. "That's it, Wendy darling. We'll just take it slow."

They made their way to the door and he opened it to lead her out into the hallway, and she went to steps before halting and he saw what was happening just in time to stand clear before she leaned over and threw up.

He heaved a sigh. "Thanks for not puking in my office, doll," he muttered, though it occurred to him that her vomiting had effectively killed his hard-on. Small favors, and he would most certainly assign Travis to mopping up.

It took awhile for Wendy to tell him where her room was, but Negan got her there without further incident. She had a couple roommates, judging by the total of three cots in the cramped space, but neither of them were to be seen. Wendy moved automatically towards her own cot once they were inside and he followed along, still holding her steady. She lowered herself slowly onto the cot with a heavy sigh and stared straight up at the ceiling, looking nothing short of tragic.

He tapped her knee and when she turned to look at him he asked, "You okay, doll?"

She grimaced, but gave a thumbs up. He nodded and turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm to stop him and asked, "What about Travis?"

He paused to consider it for a moment, then answered, "You won. He's all yours."

She closed her eyes and gave a sigh of relief. He went to leave again and she added, "What are we going to do about the stock?"

He shrugged. "We'll worry about it when you're not shit faced."

She nodded, then hesitated before asking, "Can we keep our conversation between us? It's just that people can be really weird about it..."

He smiled and signed, "Your secret is safe with me, Wendy darling."

She smiled back and gave him another thumbs up.

Returning the gesture, he left the room and close the door behind him. It really felt like teaching again, breaking up fights in the yard, settling disputes between students, even playing counselor to one coming out of the closet.

Was that what it was? He'd had a few gay kids before, but they were, well, different. It was black and white with them, the boys who were into other boys and the girls into girls. Everything Wendy told him sat in more of a gray area; she was straight, but...fuck, a straight that was specific to certain individuals? Her motor didn't run at all unless someone had a key?

Hell, maybe that was a good fucking analogy, comparing her to the machinery she loved so much. Except she probably wouldn't appreciate him insinuating she was some kind of automaton. He chuckled. She'd probably cuss him out some more.

Well, whatever the fuck she chose to call herself, whoever she decided to get freaky with and why, one thing he learned from those kids he taught was that coming out could be a _huge_ fucking risk and doing so could mean marking yourself for discrimination. Those kids didn't need him pushing opinions and judgments onto them, they needed to be taken seriously. And shit. None of those kids were drunk. They _chose_ to tell someone about their orientation. Wendy might not have spilled the beans if she'd been sober, and while he might not understand "demisexual," he at least understood that mocking her for it when she might otherwise never have said a word was the biggest asshole move he could make. It didn't even change anything, as far as he was concerned. She was still a fucking genius. But, he resolved, he was going to have to crack down if, when, and as soon as he heard about people "being weird."

But first, he decided as he headed to the infirmary, she had to sober up. And aspirin and water was the least he could do for her.

 **Thank you for reading! Feel free to share your thoughts :)**


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